Tale of Two Idiots
by Brod Panis
Summary: Sherlock and John's agonizingly long journey to discovering the most obvious thing about each other
1. Preface

This is a tale of the joining between two idiots. They are not called so because of their lack of knowledge, but rather because they are the two densest men you will ever meet. One is an army doctor; the other, a consulting detective. They both know a great deal about life and science and things of the sort. What they do not know though is their love for one another. It's a faint stirring in the pits of their stomachs and hearts, the deepest of aches in their bones. They both believe their love is unrequited, but it's almost unfathomable as to the reason why they believe this.

For John, it's expected. He normally sees things on the surface as for what they are. He tries to look deeper and understand thoroughly, but he's no Sherlock and never will be. If his brain worked more like Sherlock's, then he would've seen how the taller male looked at him in a completely different light, or how he began to do "mundane" things just for him. No, he would just see it as Sherlock trying to shut him up for a bit. But if he had the deduction skills he would have known within three seconds of looking at his flatmate that his feelings were returned, and strongly.

Only, he wouldn't for Sherlock himself couldn't see that John loved him as well. That's what emotions did to people and that was precisely why Sherlock had built himself a perfect palace made of what he thought was the toughest material. Then John came along and those walls cracked; and then they almost died and Sherlock realized that he didn't know what he would do if John would have died and the walls slowly began to crumble; finally, he realized that he was absolutely in love with John and then the walls began to grow mysterious holes and he lost all sorts of data. All of those missing pieces were filled with John and now he had trouble reading him simply because he wanted to read what he was hoping was there all along.

It's so unfortunate how he didn't realize just how right he was.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay so from now on I will be uploading *hopefully* regularly every Monday. Maybe more often if I feel inclined~**

**As always, review, add to whatever you wish, etc.**

Sherlock loves John. That much is true and has been for quite some time. He loves that man from the very ends of each blond and gray hair all the way down to the tips of his toes. The feeling overwhelms him, and sometimes while he's doing experiments he catches himself thinking of John and everything that he is and all the things he doesn't know and will never know and everything he does know that he will never share with anyone.

He wants to melt inside John's mind and discover everything and help him know everything there is possible to know. Just to have a little space in John's mind where everything about him can be stored so when John gets lonely, he can go to that section in his mind and engulf himself in Sherlock.

It's ridiculous, though. It's ridiculous that he even thinks for a moment that John will dedicate more than a few facts about Sherlock to his brain. There would be no way that he could hold everything that Sherlock knows and everything that he's learned himself. It's pointless that the detective is even sitting there hoping that this is true. It's pointless and awful and gut-churning and it makes him yearn for the doctor even more. To cover it up, he walks over to one of the couch pillows, places it in the kitchen sink, and sets it on fire. He knows the alarm will be set off at any moment and John will come downstairs and yell for a while. Sherlock sits in his chair and begins to think of a good experiment excuse.

John does come downstairs and he does yell before he gets the fire extinguisher and puts it out. Sherlock sits the entire time and watches him go on and on and when he's asked what it's for, he tells him that he is trying to see if a couch pillow could burn for more than twenty minutes before disappearing entirely. Then, there's more yelling and John goes up to his room again, but not before muttering something along the lines of "Bloody wanker" as he does so.

Sherlock loves it when John mutters. He also loves the way he walks away and the way he calls him names (most of the time there's a fondness behind the words). He loves the way John gets worked up when Sherlock does something wrong and he loves the way John tries to teach him how people really work. He loves how when they're walking down the street to get food, John sometimes asks Sherlock to deduce the people around them. He loves it when John laughs when he hears something rather embarrassing about said people. He loves running with John, fighting with John, watching John type and sleep, laughing with John, (sometimes) eating with John, the way John looks at him when he thinks Sherlock isn't looking. He loves the way John compliments him as he goes on deduction rampages during a crime scene and when he finally solves the puzzle. He loves the way John breathes after they've been running and how quickly he recovers even with his psychosomatic limp

He loves John so much that he does things for him. When he's not on a case, he willingly eats for the other. He tries to be careful and not get hurt too much because he doesn't want to see the look of the other's face when he's cleaning him up. He gets as much sleep as his mind will allow. He tries not to make John angry, but it's not very effective. What can he say, though? He's a difficult man and does things mostly for himself that lead to John getting angry. However, he still does things for him.

He also cares about John. Over the course of 18 months, he began to grow protective over him. He makes sure that John is always healthy and doing fine. He also makes sure that John is happy. Whatever makes John happy secretly makes Sherlock happy and before he can stop himself he's always doing small things to check on John's happiness. He cares about the doctor so much he lets him go out on dates with other women. If those women make John happy, then Sherlock definitely won't be the one to stop him, even though it causes this odd empty feeling in the area of his chest, and sometimes it seeps into his bones. However every single time without fail, he finds the slight aching too much to bear and texts John with some sort of false emergencies and nine times out of ten John shows up no more than an hour later, ready to help. It's selfish, but Sherlock doesn't care because he doesn't want to share John with anyone ever. Within a year and a half, John became one of three people that Sherlock, the man with no feelings, actually cared about.

Sherlock is also absolutely terrified of John. He is terrified of the way John spoke about other women as if they are the best thing to happen to him. He is terrified that one day John will realize that Sherlock is nothing more than just a freak and will leave him, just like everyone else did. He is terrified that one day Mycroft will call him and tell him that John needs to go back out to war (though deep down he knows that will never happen) and while he's out there he'll die. He's terrified of losing John in any way, shape, or form. But most of all he's terrified of being in love with him. He's terrified of not knowing what he's supposed to do in situations like this. All research has come up inconclusive for everything he reads is vastly different from the rest and none of it makes sense. He thinks that one day it may just slip out and John will run away and everything will be ruined.

It's because Sherlock loves, cares, and is terrified of John that he leaves, making sure that John believes it's for good.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: DONE. As always, review, add to your alerts, or whatever it is you feel the need to do~**

**Next chapter will be up on Monday, June 4th!**

As you may expect, John loves Sherlock. Not only does he love him, but he's in love with him, and deeply so. How Sherlock has not managed to find this out is a mystery beyond him, but he's grateful. Ever since the day at Angelo's when he learned that his flatmate is married to his work, John kept those sorts of feelings to himself. It was just too high of a risk to tell him. It would only lead to rejection and awkwardness, which would then eventually lead back to loneliness.

By no means is John a gay man. He loved women and their bodies and all they had to offer. He wanted to have children with a gorgeous woman who had red hair and green eyes and live in a nice house. When Sherlock came in, though, it all changed for him. It took him a bit to register that he fancied the consulting detective and when he did realize it, he did all he could to push it to the back of his mind. Besides, his parents already had one gay child, he didn't know if they could handle another. But as he thought more and more about it, he realized that no other attractive man he passed by ever got a second look from him. When Sherlock comes into a room, though, it's hard for him to take his eyes away for more than a few moments. He still fancies girls, quite a bit actually. However as soon as Sherlock comes into play, it's him. It's always him.

He's heard of this before, an exception to all rules. Why Sherlock Holmes of all people has to be his exception, he doesn't know. Some how, though, it feels right to him.

John loves (pretty much) everything about Sherlock. He loves the messy curls on his head that extended more towards his chin when he got out of the shower. He loves how his eyes see through every façade you throw at him. God, those eyes. Those eyes could bring any man to his knees. He loves the way Sherlock tells people they're wrong, and he loves how Sherlock can never admit that he's wrong. He loves the arrogance that surrounds him and just how sure of himself he is. He loves that Sherlock doesn't know how to interact with people on a normal standard and always manages to screw things up to some degree. He loves how much Sherlock knows and how he uses that knowledge to put the most complicated of things together. He loves the look Sherlock gets on his face when he realizes something or when he's just solved the riddles. He loves it when Sherlock gets bored (though not that much), and he loves it when Sherlock curls up in a ball on the couch and sulks for days on end. He loves when he wakes up in the middle of the night to hear the violin creeping up the stairs, the sweet notes that the taller male creates with every stroke of his bow.

It's also safe to say that John cares about Sherlock. He cares about this insane man so much that he's willing to do anything at the drop of a hat. It doesn't matter who he's with or what he's doing. If Sherlock needs him that badly, you can bet John will be there. It's cost him quite a bit of relationships, but to him it's fine because as long as he has Sherlock, life's okay and never boring. He cares about Sherlock enough to let things slide. He doesn't want to waste their time over petty arguments that Sherlock will outwit him in, and so he lets the other get away with a few things. He also cares about him so much that he's willing to kill for him. He's done it in the past, and he's willing to do it a hundred more times if it protects Sherlock. He's willing to put himself in danger. He yells at Sherlock repeatedly whenever Sherlock does almost get himself killed (which isn't often anymore) all because he cares so much about what happens to him.

John is also extremely terrified of Sherlock. He knows what this man is capable of and what his goddamn brother is capable of. He's terrified of the power that said man has over him. It's terrifying to think, even for a second, that one day John might not be enough anymore and Sherlock will kick him out. Sherlock has done so much for John, and if they were to part… John doesn't know what he'd do. He's terrified that Sherlock will one day face off against Moriarty and he might possibly die because Moriarty has powers that John hasn't even thought of. He's terrified that one day he won't be quick enough and Sherlock will be dead because he couldn't hurry. He's terrified of losing Sherlock in general.

All of these feelings towards that man kill John. It's not because he's ashamed or embarrassed about who has his heart, but because he can't do anything about it. Sherlock is married to his work, and these things are not his "area". This makes things extremely complicated for John, and in order to bear it even the slightest bit, he goes out with other women so they can, even for just a moment, distract him. It's really not easy, to be honest. They all seem to like him and want to get to know him more, and while he really does try to get interested in them, he always stops at a certain point. Yes, the women he goes out with are extremely beautiful and kind, but they aren't Sherlock. No one is. Yet he still kisses them and tries to take them to bed because every time he starts pulling away from them for the simple reason that he has the tall male on his mind, he gets the awful reminder that his feelings will never be returned. So, he takes those beautiful women out on other dates and, on some occasions, to bed.

And it absolutely kills him to be so fake and to be such a heartless, selfish player at the expenses of these women, who genuinely care about and like him. But he can't help it. He feels it's out of his control now, and it's absolutely terrifying.

So you can imagine his relief whenever his phone goes off and Sherlock's name appears. It's ruined a few (or more than a few) potential relationships, but when he thinks about it, he can't bring himself to care too much for it's the self-proclaimed sociopath that he wants. He can only hope those women will eventually forgive him for his selfishness.

It is because he loves, cares for, and is terrified of Sherlock that one day he decides that sometime soon he's going to tell Sherlock exactly how he feels. It's only fair that the detective knows how his blogger feels, no matter where it might take them. He can only hope that Sherlock will simply brush it off or delete it so they can continue on with a little less stress on John's shoulders.

But before he has the chance, Sherlock leaves him.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: DONE. You know the drill! If there are any mistakes you see, please tell me. I've revised this a couple of times but there still might be something that I missed.**

**Upload next week might be delayed a day or two because I'll be out of town. Enjoy!**

From the day he first met Moriarty, Sherlock knew what his fate would be. He knew that he would have to leave John's life in order to protect him. To him, it was blatantly obvious. Not only had Moriarty said "I will burn the heart out of you", but he made his intentions clear what he also wanted to do to the detective's faithful blogger. The only thing he didn't quite know was if he just had to tell John to leave, or if he had to die. Both options weren't good ones, but they were the only ones. He thought about it for days on end before realizing that he would have to do the latter in order to ensure John's safety.

From the looks of it then, he didn't have much time to find a way to cheat death and save John. And so he began to make his plans.

He tells a select few people about what's going to take place and he manages to get them all in on it. Irene, Mycroft, and Molly are said few who know. They all play their own special and extremely important roles in his death.

Irene helps with getting Sherlock in contact with someone who can help fake his records and convince people he's dead.

Molly's job is perhaps one of the most important. Molly is the one who is to watch over John the most. She's to pop in every now and then and make sure that he hasn't killed himself or starved himself. She needs to keep him busy and ask him for help around the morgue as often as possible. If it comes down to it, then she's allowed to stay the night a few times just to make sure he's okay.

Mycroft helps Sherlock take down Moriarty's web of crime. Mycroft is also expected to keep an eye on John by placing multiple cameras around the flat so he can see what Molly doesn't. If anything is to go horribly wrong and John does end up attempting to kill himself, then Mycroft has permission to get as many men over there to help save his John because without him, all of this will be for nothing.

Of course, that is the worst case scenario. Sherlock doubts that John will attempt suicide. The man is, after all, a soldier. He's seen dozens of his comrades and close friends die, so this shouldn't be too different. He has a feeling that within a few months, John will be doing okay. Gods, he hopes so.

Even though Sherlock has been telling himself this for a few weeks before the fall, it still pains him deeply to know what he's about to put his best friend through. He doesn't want to leave. He really doesn't. He knows what will happen to John if he doesn't, but the consequences of him staying are way more severe. He should've been able to stop Moriarty from the beginning, though. He thought that maybe if he hadn't been so damn caught up in the fun cat and mouse game that he probably could have won and he wouldn't have to go through with this.

Alas, that is not the case and a few weeks after everything is set, Moriarty's plan is more than a success and Sherlock finds himself on the roof of Bart's, ready to "die". In a last ditch effort, Sherlock tries to get the code out of the master criminal, but instead Moriarty turns the tables and kills himself with a single bullet straight through his head. For once in his life, Sherlock is surprised. He didn't think Moriarty would actually kill himself in order to win this game. Now he really has to go through this. Moriarty has won for now, and the great detective has to die.

Now all he can think about is John. How much John is going to hurt and how long he will. John will probably move out of 221B, but he hopes it isn't until Mrs. Hudson is doing better. He knows she wouldn't be able to handle losing John as well. John will probably move on after a while and meet a nice woman and settle down, and as much as it hurts him to think about it, as long as she makes him happy and helps him forget, then he's alright with it. He'll have two kids (no more than that, Sherlock recalls from a conversation they'd had months ago), and everything will be perfect. In time, he knows he will be all but forgotten. John is a sentimental man, after all.

He snaps himself out of his thoughts as he realizes that the snipers are patiently waiting to pull the trigger on their three targets. There's probably a set amount of time they have before they're to do so, and Sherlock feels himself panic for a moment as he quickly pulls his phone out and steps back onto the ledge of the roof.

With a heavy heart and a slightly shaking hand, Sherlock opens his phone and calls John, who no doubt is on his way back to the hospital. On the third ring the other picks up, and Sherlock knows that he's back. John hastily explains that Mrs. Hudson is fine, and Sherlock stops him and tells him to look up at the rooftop. He can hear the tone in the other's voice falter, and soon turn into panic. Sherlock wants to tell John so many things, but he knows that if he doesn't keep it simple and brief, he may accidentally kill John in more ways than he already has to.

He doesn't want John to listen and watch; he wants John to _listen and observe_. He prays to whatever higher being out there that John will be able to decipher his so very subtle message and know that Sherlock will be back and that he isn't really dead. But by the end of his note, he can tell John isn't listening and is instead begging Sherlock to live and even tries to run into Bart's to stop him. It's probably for the best, though. He doesn't know if the snipers are like Moriarty and can spot a bluff right away, or if they won't even be able to tell their ass from their elbow. If it's the first one, then yes, John needs to believe 100% that his best friend won't be returning to the flat that night.

It kills him, but the consulting detective stretches out his arm and manages to get the already-heading-towards-the-door John to stay by beginning to fake-cry. John stops in his steps and waits anxiously for Sherlock to finish. He sucks in a breath and does so.

"Goodbye, John."

"Sherlock, wait-"

Sherlock tosses the phone aside and looks at the sight in front of him. This will be the last time he sees London for a while. His eyes then move downwards, locking onto John, who is starting to move forward. Before he can get another thought in, he's falling. The air lets him fall with ease, and instinctively his limbs flail. He can hear John shout something, no doubt he's running. Hopefully the biker is in place to knock John over to buy him more time.

Suddenly, Sherlock's body makes contact with something soft, and he doesn't have any time to get it thoroughly processed because he's being pulled into a car and his replacement is shoved into place with a pool of his previously frozen blood pooling beneath him.

By the time the whole ordeal is over, Sherlock is in a car with a small television screen that's showing the sight in front of Bart's. He can't hear anything, but he doesn't need to. John's actions are all he needs to know that his plan was a success. The tone of his entire being as he tries to grasp on Sherlock's corpse, the way he collapses to his knees as he realizes all hope is lost, it's obvious. Perhaps it's for the better, though. If John truly does think that his best friend is dead, then he really won't have a thing to worry about as long as the detective manages to take down Moriarty's web without causing too much attention to himself. Even so, he still wishes that John got the message so the poor man wouldn't have to go through an unknown amount of time in emotional pain. Even thinking about it now makes the detective's stomach twist and his heart wrench.

But it's good that he's doing this. It's absolutely necessary that he's doing this. That's what he tells himself as the car pulls away and John Watson is left behind, alone.

He's taken to Mycroft's house, and goes into his designated room. He locks the door securely behind him in an attempt for some privacy, but it's pointless. There are cameras in the room of course. Because of this, he keeps the pain and nausea he feels hidden as he sits in a desk chair. He leans forward and rubs his face as John's pleading words echo in his mind. Sherlock feels like he's failed his only friend, and it's one of the last things he's wanted to do.

Sherlock stares at the wall for a good hour, trying to get the inner turmoil to slow down into something bearable. Even by the time that hour has passed though, he still feels like actually dying. It's not going to help him get anything done faster, unfortunately, and now every minute is precious and needs to be spent as such. He bites his lower lip a bit apprehensively before he opens one of the files waiting for him on the desk and begins the next stage of his plan: Taking down Moriarty's web.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is late, I know I know. Next week's will be on time though!**

John's furious, to say the least. He storms out of St. Bart's and hails a cab to get back to 221b, where apparently was injured.

Before he left, he had told Sherlock what he was told on the phone, which was that their lovely landlady had been shot. In response, Sherlock brushed it off as nothing.

Boy that surely got John's blood boiling. He knows that Sherlock can be a machine at times, yet this surprises him. He thought for sure that Sherlock would care at least a little bit that their landlady could be dying. She does seem like a motherly figure to him, after all.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

The sentences play over and over again in his head, even as he pays the cabbie and enters their flat. Before he can get a word out, he sees Mrs. Hudson by the stairs, talking to one of their neighbors, who's fixing the wall up. His eyes dart back and forth, and when she turns to address him, his brain finally catches up.

She's fine. Nothing's wrong, not here at least. That could only mean… His eyes widen.

Sherlock.

Without another word he darts out of the flat and manages to catch a cab. The way there, his mind is racing. What the hell could Sherlock be up to now? That man could be so damn reckless, and by the feeling in his stomach, nothing good was going to happen.

John pulls his phone out of his pocket and is about to dial in Sherlock's number when his phone rings. John's heart skips a beat when he sees that it's his flatmate's name. Good. This means he's alive still, right? He answers his phone just as the cab pulls up in front of the hospital. He doesn't let Sherlock get out a word before he starts telling him that Mrs. Hudson is fine and is about to ask where he is when he's told to look up at the roof. Although he's slightly confused, he does what he's told to do and looks up. There, standing on the ledge is a tall figure that can only belong to Sherlock Holmes.

He feels his gut clench and starts to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing, but Sherlock is already talking. John doesn't want to look, but there's a tone in the other's voice that makes him. It doesn't take him long to realize what Sherlock is about to do, and he's terrified.

He tries to talk Sherlock off of the ledge, but the damn man is so stubborn. John swallows a sob as the other tries to tell him that he's a phony and a lie. Of course, John doesn't want to believe any of it. He knows Sherlock better than this, and he doesn't know why he's doing this. He should know, but he doesn't and it's making this situation all the more stressful.

His voice is now pleading as Sherlock shifts on the ledge. Oh God, he can't believe this is happening. He feels his voice falter, and attempts to regain control of it. This, of course, is no use. John begins to walk towards the hospital, and for some dumb reason he lets Sherlock talk him out of it. His brain is every where and he can hardly focus on the words that are pouring out of his mouth. He needs to stop it. It's absolutely vital that he does.

It then occurs to him to try and get up to the roof before his friend can seal his fate. His feet start moving, and there's a noise on the other end of the phone. Sherlock pleads with him to stay, and there's something about his voice that makes him do so. It sounds like he's crying, and John can feel himself grow nauseas. Why does he always have to be so damn stubborn? Why can't he just let John help him?

Then, a thought strikes him: He needs to know. Sherlock needs to know how John feels, honestly. It isn't fair for him to die and not know the truth. And maybe, just maybe, if he knows, he won't kill himself. He knows that Sherlock isn't a sentimental man, and the chances of that happening are little to none. It's worth a shot though, right?

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. When he opens them again, he opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock is telling him goodbye. In a desperate attempt, John tries to hold onto him a moment longer, but the other has already thrown his phone to the side. A strangled cry breaks through John, and it sounds something like "Sherlock", but even he isn't too sure anymore.

John wants to run, cover his eyes, _something_, but his body is frozen. The only things that move are his eyes. They trail Sherlock as he falls from the building, his limbs flailing lamely as he approached the ground. It was something that lasts all of three seconds, yet it feels like a lifetime to the doctor.

He hears the body hit the ground, and suddenly he's able to move again. The world around him spins, and he nearly falls over twice.

He's fast approaching the hospital when something crashes into him from behind and he's on the ground. For a moment he wishes that it's a car, and maybe if he hit his head hard enough, he might die too. But his eyes open again and he pushes himself up off the ground and manages to make his way to the crowd forming around the dead body. John's vision is swimming as he tries to push through them, almost unsuccessfully.

"Please… He's my friend." John murmurs.

The sight before him is appalling and shocking. There on the ground is his best friend. His lifeless eyes are staring at the sky, and John falls to his knees. God, there's so much blood. It's already drying onto the other's face. Desperately, he grabs the other's wrist and takes his pulse. There is none. He tries to lean forward and hold onto him, but to no avail. Another strangled noise passes his lips as he's pulled away from the body. The detective's name falls from his lips in noiseless sounds and the body is put onto a stretcher. His arm reaches up pathetically in front of him as a way of trying to get them to stop.

Slowly but surely, an all but forgotten pain starts to creep up his leg. His whole body begins to shake, but he doesn't cry. All he does is murmur "Sherlock" and "Oh, God". A few people help him up to his feet, but he collapses on the bloodied ground again. They follow him down to the ground and place their hands on his shoulders in an attempt to comfort him, but that doesn't work either.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, but suddenly he's sitting in a chair in the E.R, waiting for something. His leg feels like it's on fire now, and his heart is beating erratically in his chest. He can hardly create a coherent thought. This whole thing is a mess and he just wants to wake up from it all. The pain may be real enough, but that doesn't mean it can't be a dream. This has to be a dream. There's no way that he could have missed Sherlock's signs leading up to suicide. Normally suicide victims have signs leading up to their suicide. Then again, Sherlock wasn't everyone.

John buries his face in his hands and tries to breathe. It doesn't work. A doctor comes out and leads him to a more private room, where Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson are sitting. Mrs. Hudson is crying, and Mycroft stares at the wall in front of him, and Lestrade looks like he's been hit in the face with a bat. When did they get here? John takes a seat across from the elder Holmes, and stares at the wall behind him. He can't cry, not here. He needs to be strong.

The doctor comes in and says something, but John doesn't listen. He already knows what he's in here to say, and it isn't necessary. He looks at Mrs. Hudson, who's obviously broken into a new chorus of sobs, then back at Mycroft. He drops his gaze to his lap and curses to himself silently.

It's back to square one. He used to have the perfect life. Sometimes it could be scary and tedious, but he loved it and he loved everyone in it. However now the man he loves the most is gone, and he's alone in a colorless and terrifying world that doesn't fit him. It's not the first time, but it still twists his organs and makes him feel like dying. Now tonight he will have to go home and lay in his bed. There will be no soothing violin music to calm him down, and no sounds of smoke alarms going off from experiments.

He's alone. He can feel it in every inch of his bones. John stares blankly ahead as he retreats back into himself. It's the only safe place he has left.


	6. Chapter 5

It's August 5th, over three years since he's been gone. This whole operation had taken a bit longer than expected, but now it's done. Sherlock can't believe that he's taken down nearly every strand Moriarty had constructed. He's taken down the whole empire, and now all that's left is a dark history.

* * *

His journey began in Norway, where Mycroft had found the first lead. That one was extremely easy, Sherlock had found. It took him no more than a few days to take down that strand. He didn't even need to come up with a new persona. Within the next few weeks, he found himself on the move again.

He bounced from country to country nonstop for six months straight. In those six months, he only managed to successfully take down the strands in seven different countries: Norway, Sweden, Greenland, Ethiopia, Greece, Brazil (which was an extremely difficult one), Argentina, and Vietnam. He was exhausted and he could feel his brain slowly slipping. Immediately he informed his brother Mycroft that he needed some time to gather his thoughts before his own brain turned into mush.

And by some miracle, he managed to convince his brother to allow him to come back to London to focus. He looked nothing like his old self, of course, and so it was a safe bet that the only people who would recognize were the ones that were close to him, and since they lived in London as well it meant he had to spend his days "off" locked in Mycroft's house.

Of course, he didn't stay cooped up in there for long. After the first day he managed to sneak out. The first place he went to? 221B Baker Street. He didn't go inside, because he was afraid of what he might find or who he might not find. So instead he stayed across the street and watched quietly, and an ache he hadn't felt since he first left blossomed in his chest and made his breath hitch a bit. All he wanted to do was go inside and comfort John, who was probably still an emotional wreck.

It was a dangerous and irrational thought, so he returned back to Mycroft's home before his brother could ever find out that he was gone.

Later on that night, though, he found out.

From that point on, Sherlock required weekly updates about John. It pained him enough that he had to be away for so long, so he wanted to know at least how John was doing.

Some of the notes were short and simple, like

_John hasn't left the flat at all._

_John hasn't been eating. Mrs. Hudson has been taking him up meals._

_He slept in your bed Monday night, Sherlock._

_He needs you back._

To ones that were a bit more detailed

_John won't talk to anyone. He's been sitting in his chair, staring at yours everyday. He even falls asleep in it._

_He's resorted to using his cane again, since his limp is back. He's tried to keep walking without it, but yesterday he couldn't get up because it hurt too much. He sleeps in his chair, you know. And his nightmares are becoming more violent than I recall._

_Sherlock, he's depressed, as you can imagine. I've managed to force him into seeing a therapist—one that's better, of course. His last one couldn't diagnose properly even if her life depended on it. Hurry up, dear brother. I'm not sure how much more your soldier can take._

As the years went on, the notes got a bit different, though.

_He's met someone at Tescos. She helped him out to the taxi, and they seemed to have a somewhat nice chat. I could be mistaken (though I'm certain I'm not) but I do believe he acquired her number._

_John went out on his first date since you've died… with that woman from Tescos. I do believe her name is Mary Morstan._

Sherlock knew he should have seen it coming. He really should have. It didn't stop his heart from aching terribly, though. It was almost as if someone had used it as a punching bag and left it, bruised and bleeding. And being a man that had never gone through something quite like this, Sherlock found it hard to focus on anything for a couple of days. He knew what was coming next long before he got the wedding invitation that had been sent to Mycroft nearly 30 months since his "suicide".

Instead of his world stopping, Sherlock worked faster. He had to finish this before he completely lost John to this Mary forever. He couldn't lose the only friend he had ever truly had. He wasn't going to lose the only reason why he was alive and not actually dead. It just couldn't happen.

The last country he went to was America, where he faced off with Sebastian Moran, one of Moriarty's closest men. In the process of trying to take him down, Sherlock nearly died himself by almost falling off the top of some sixty story building in Chicago. It had been difficult, especially with the American government breathing down his neck pretty much the whole time. He managed though, and as he watched Moran bleed to a slow death, he realized that it was finally his time to go home.

* * *

Now he's on his way back to London, where John Watson will be. Much to the detective's dismay, the doctor had left 221B. He can't understand why, he really can't. He knows that he's married now, but—

Perhaps it's better that he moved out. Sherlock can't stand to think about Mary in their flat, touching their stuff, going to Sherlock's room, kissing John in their living room, John taking her to his (well, it would have been their) room. It's absolutely repulsive.

God, how Sherlock already hates this Mary girl. She's probably some beautiful woman with a boring personality and a boring job and a boring life story. Why else does John want her around?

Why does John want anyone but him?

It's a vain thought, Sherlock knows, but it's true! He knows that he was the most interesting thing John had in his life before he died. And now he's gone off and married someone else, someone who gives him the dull normalcy that everyone seems to crave.

It makes him feel sick. His head spins and his heart rate slows down so much that he feels like he's going to keel over.

Love is such an inconvenience for the younger Holmes. He doesn't understand why he has to go through it, and why it has to be with John. John, who is straight and now married. John, who is his best friend. Doctor John. Colleague John. I'm-Not-His-Date John.

He clenches his teeth and glares out the tinted window in the back of Mycroft's car. His expression remains stony and unfeeling, but even the elder knows what's going through his brother's mind.

"Sherlock, when you see John..." He pauses, glancing at Sherlock, "Do try not to startle him. Remember, you've been dead for three years."

Sherlock simply huffs.

They stop in front of Sherlock's home, and Mycroft steps out of the car with him. Without a word spoken, the two make their way upstairs to the flat. They don't worry about Mrs. Hudson seeing them for she's away for the weekend at her sister's funeral. Sherlock hesitates for a moment in front of the door before he quietly opens it. There's a tension in the air as he does so, and he finds it's hard to breathe.

The door opens all the way, revealing the emptier flat. Most of Sherlock's stuff is still there, all the stuff from before John moved in. The corners of his mouth pull down into a grimace as he enters into the living room. Nothing's too dusty, which is a sign that Mrs. Hudson's been cleaning. His eyes scan the room over and over again, noting everything that's been taken out of there and replaced.

John's medical books no longer rest on the shelf. A few of the pictures over the years that belonged to John have been taken down as well. There's a stale smell in the air, one of old cleaner. Tea obviously hasn't been made here in months. It's so cold, desolate, and lonely. Something that Sherlock used to be okay with now makes a small part of him ache.

Sherlock turns to Mycroft and, with dark eyes, demands that he leave. Mycroft does just that, but not before warning his brother not to get into any mischief.

As soon as the door closes, Sherlock starts on finding John's new residence. In a little under an hour, he finds the address. Within twenty minutes after that, after he's cleaned himself up a bit, he's on his way there. It's only five in the afternoon, and he knows that John won't be home. There's no doubt in the detective's mind that John's working, and since it's a weekday it's obvious that he's going to be doing just that.

Sherlock steps out of the taxi and leans up again the door of the Watson residence. He pulls a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lights it. He's so stressed out he can feel himself shaking, and he laughs a bit. He's been preparing for this moment ever since he realized he was going to have to die, and now that it's here his body is freaking out.

He inhales a deep drag and holds it in his lungs until he can barely stand it, then slowly parts his lips and exhales, watching the smoke float into the gray sky. He blinks a few times and repeats the process until the cigarette is gone. He checks his phone, which reads 5:20. He knows John will still be an hour, and so he settles onto the doorstep, waiting for the sight of graying hair and kind blue eyes.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter is waaay longer than I intended it to be, but only by like 2000 words OTL. I didn't mean to make it so long but John. Just John. John. JAWWWN MY POOR BBY. I actually thought about making it into two separate chapters but then it'd mess up the formatting of how all of this is going to go and I couldn't have that happen. I just couldn't.**

**Aaaaand this is late. Whoops. AND I FORGOT TO PUT THE LINE IN ADSOFJDSAFKJDSFDISFJDSA WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.**

Three years. Three fucking years it's been since Sherlock died; two years since John's "seen" Sherlock everywhere he's gone; a year and a half since Sherlock stopped whispering in his head; and six months since Sherlock's bloodied face stopped appearing behind his eyelids nearly every night.

Those three years have dragged on and on, but John feels as though he's finally getting better.

It hasn't always been this easy for him, though.

* * *

The funeral was one of the hardest things John had to deal with. Not only did he have to say goodbye to his best friend for the final time, but he also had to face those who helped bring him down. Lestrade, Donovan, Mycroft… Hell he was sure even Anderson had something to do with it, since he seemed to hate Sherlock just as much as everyone else. What made it worse was that they, with the exception of Mycroft, were _crying_. They were the ones that pushed Sherlock into thinking that he himself was a phony. They shouldn't have the satisfaction of being able to mourn openly in front of everyone when John couldn't even do so himself. They deserved to suffer in silence. It took all he could not to strike them across the face.

To him, the only people that deserved to mourn were Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They genuinely cared about Sherlock. Not to say that John didn't as well, but he also felt as though it was his fault that Sherlock died. He was his best, and apparently only, friend. He should have been able to see the signs of it. He wasn't a psychologist, but he still should have seen the obvious signs. Then again, there weren't really any obvious signs. Sherlock acted the same as he always did, if not a little slower. His mind did seem to wander a few times, but John had always thought it was due to lack of sleep, but obviously it wasn't. Let's not forget that he didn't even bother to tell Sherlock his true feelings even though he had every right to know them. God, he was just an awful, awful person.

That being said, John didn't feel like he had the right to mourn. He felt it was his fault. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it really wasn't, but it didn't stop them from nagging away. He could almost hear Sherlock snickering and telling him he was an idiot for thinking so normally, and it only made things worse to hear that voice when tombstone was right in front of him.

So at the funeral, he stared straight ahead, his hand gripping onto the cane for dear life, almost as if he let go he would lose everything he had left. Mrs. Hudson was crying into John's shoulder, and Molly sat there with quiet tears rolling down her cheeks. Yes, they were definitely the only two there that actually deserved to be crying. No matter what Sherlock did to them, they always treated him kindly. They were really the ones who had the right to be broken hearted.

After the funeral, John returned to 221B with Mrs. Hudson, despite how even thinking about that place hurt him. But she couldn't be alone, not now, and neither could he. So the two spent the next few hours up in his (now it was just his, and oh how awful it sounded) flat. They talked about Sherlock and how he truly was a great man, despite all the hell he put everyone through.

When Mrs. Hudson finally retired back to her room, John sat on the couch and stared at the fireplace, secretly hoping that at any moment Sherlock would burst into the flat in a flurry of blue eyes and curly hair and a long black coat, and everything would go back to normal, just like that. And maybe then John would get the courage to admit himself right then and there, and maybe Sherlock would be okay with it. Maybe it would be enough for Sherlock to never leave again.

It was stupid. He was stupid.

Almost immediately the limp came back. He had to dig the can out of his closet in his room, and the feel in his hands was almost foreign. It was hard to walk around with it, especially since it'd been a year and a half since he last used it. In the beginning his limp was so bad, even the cane didn't help. He'd just resorted to staying in the flat the majority of the day, staring at the walls that were filled with Sherlock's things, but not the man himself.

He didn't talk to anyone for the first three months. He didn't even say "Thank you" to Mrs. Hudson when she stopped by to force him to eat. Instead he just nodded and her and wordlessly ate a small portion of whatever she'd brought him. When Molly stopped by, neither of them would talk. They would just sit there in an uncomfortable silence, mourning in their own way over the man they both loved.

There was one time, however, when he did speak. And really, it wasn't even speaking. Mycroft had come over, along with a few men in black suits, to collect some of the things Sherlock had stolen from the government. Mycroft had made the mistake of trying to voice how he, too, was upset over Sherlock's death but still had the motivation to move on. It only led to John shouting at him about how it was his fault that Moriarty was let out after the first time he was caught. He had been the one to sell his own brother out for information. It ended with John calling Mycroft a selfish bastard and throwing a punch at the wall. Since then, Mycroft hasn't spoken to him.

John also didn't eat a lot. Actually, he ate about as much as Sherlock did, and that was only because it was forced. Mrs. Hudson, as mentioned before, would bring up food and sit there at the table until he finished it. The first few times were a pain the arse for the poor landlady, but soon enough John ate about half of it and she would leave him alone. Other than that, nothing would pass his lips, not even if he began to heave from the lack of nutrients. It wasn't all that important to him.

As expected, his nightmares became more frequent again. However, this time they weren't just about his time in Afghanistan. Some were about the day he watched Sherlock die in front of him. He would have to stand at the bottom of the hospital and watch Sherlock talk, only he couldn't hear. And then just as he was about to take the leap, Moriarty would appear behind him and shove him off the edge. Each and every time, John would begin to run, but it'd be like moving through molasses. Some how, he'd make it to the front of the hospital just as Sherlock hit the ground, and as he'd be holding the other's body, Moriarty would shout from the rooftop and laugh. It was one of the scariest things he'd ever heard in his dreams.

Another one he'd have was he was back out in Afghanistan, trying to save a wounded soldier. He kept on screaming out, begging to live, and John would go and grab some more gauze, and by the time he came back the soldier, which had morphed into Sherlock, would scream that he was dying and moments after that, would be dead. And then, Sherlock, Moriarty, or even sometimes a doppelganger of himself would appear and tell him that he could have done something to save him. He could have stopped it all before it even happened.

Whenever any of these nightmares would occur (and they did for the first six months they occurred every night that he did decide to try and sleep), he would always wake up in a cold sweat and crying. A few times he even threw up because of how graphic everything could get. It was hard to deal with on his own, and harder to push it out of his mind. Those dreams were like the plague, and they only pushed him toward almost loathing himself.

When John didn't show up to work for a week because he couldn't get any sleep and didn't want to work, he ended up quitting. He felt a tad bad for quitting, because the surgery needed a doctor and he needed to pay rent, but he couldn't bring himself to go back there. So instead of having to put the burden of dealing with a depressed doctor on Sarah, he quit. Some how, he had enough money to continue to pay the rent without any shortages (he imagined it was Mycroft's doing—the bastard). He didn't complain, and continued to sit at home, for the most part alone.

John also quit therapy. He went to Ella three more times before he stopped going altogether. She was upset about it, of course, since John was still a bit of a train wreck. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to stop him from it. It was probably a big mistake since he needed to talk things out, but it was just too hard for him and he didn't have any fight left.

Not going to therapy probably had some advantages, to be honest. He heard Sherlock a lot, and he knew that if he told Ella that she would have probably committed him to a loony bin. When Sherlock spoke to him, it wasn't anything too good. It was mostly criticism, if you want to know the truth. _'Don't be an idiot, John.'_ Or _'You can be so dull sometimes.' _There was a couple occasions, however, when Sherlock did say something that was a bit helpful. _'This isn't your fault. How could it be? You can't observe, so there was no data for you to conclude that I was going to kill myself.'_ It wasn't that comforting, but at least someone was telling him that it wasn't his fault. This didn't convince him, though.

He also sometimes saw Sherlock. At least, he thought he did. He'd be forced to go outside to breathe a bit of fresh air, and would see a man with dark hair and a long coat walking. He would go as fast as his limp would let him, and try to catch the man. It ended up with a few confused strangers and once with a man who threatened to beat the life out of him if he didn't shut up. Other times he would just see out of the corner of his eye, a man in a blue dressing gown that could only be Sherlock. It only ended with reality crushing back down on him.

After a year and a half of mourning, John finally began to get better. When Molly came over, he actually talked to her. They avoided Sherlock for the most part, and instead stuck to mundane things like work and how their weekends went. Whenever she invited him out to lunch or out for coffee, for the most part he would accept and go out with her. They actually had a pretty good time, and for the first time in a while he felt normal again. There was something about Molly that calmed him down and made the world a bit brighter. Though they both loved Sherlock, he didn't feel the need to prove himself more. She was just a really nice person, and a rather outstanding friend. He never understood why Sherlock could ever be mean to her. Probably because she was so normal like this.

He also began to talk to Mrs. Hudson. Whenever she stopped by they would end up talking for a few hours and it would leave him feeling a bit better. They did talk about Sherlock, and it didn't hurt as bad as he thought it would. It helped him push through things and get most of them out into the open. To be honest he didn't understand why he even went to a therapist in the first place. Mrs. Hudson made it so easy.

John began to eat again. He didn't need Mrs. Hudson to make him. He'd go out to Tescos and buy enough food for himself to last a few weeks and live off of that. He never had to worry about running out of money because his bank balance hardly ever changed. Again, probably Mycroft's doing. It no longer mattered to him though because at least he could survive on his own for the most part.

Two years after Sherlock's death, John was on his way out of Tescos, John accidentally bumped into a woman who was carrying her own groceries. He sent hers to the ground, along with his own. The woman was upset with him, of course, but John quickly made it up to her by helping her picking up her groceries. Luckily enough none of them broke. Once everything was all cleaned up, John actually looked at her, and man was she gorgeous. It was a bit strange to think of anyone in that way, especially since he still was in love with Sherlock, but he couldn't help it. She had long, curly blond hair and the greenest of eyes. Her lips had that perfect Cupid's bow and her skin looked so smooth… John had to get her name number. Surprisingly enough she gave it to him. Mary Morstan, and her number was 020 3648 9271. Afew hours after he arrived home, he decided to text her. It'd been a while since he'd flirted with a girl and dated, so he decided to give it a go.

The first date ended up being about Sherlock. In the back of his mind, John felt really bad about talking so much about him, but that man had been a huge part of his life. Luckily she didn't seem to mind so much. She actually seemed interested in their adventures. So, John more than willingly told her a few. She was really one of the nicest people he'd met. She was supportive and witty and intelligent. For a while, he believed that Sherlock may have liked her. She had a few interesting stories herself, and it was easy to act like they'd known each other for years. There was a new fluttering in John's chest, something he hadn't felt in over two and a half years, and it felt wonderful.

After several more dates, John asked her to be his girlfriend. It wasn't easy at all, but he knew that Sherlock would absolutely hate him if he stayed hung up over him for too much longer. She accepted, and the two continued to get along famously. They'd switch staying at each other's places, and it seemed like they'd been together a lot longer than they really had been. John didn't move a thing of Sherlock's, though, and didn't let Mary set one foot in Sherlock's room. She understood and didn't bother him about it, and tried not to touch too many of Sherlock's things if she could help it. It wasn't hard falling in love with her, really. Not as hard as he originally imagined. She was everything he was looking for in a woman, even with her flaws.

So it's no surprise to anyone when after eight months of dating he finally popped the question to her. They'd been out to a romantic birthday dinner for her, and he proposed to her at Regent's Park, right by the pond. After tears were shed and words were fumbled over, she accepted. There was a small pain in John's heart though, because now he really felt like he was leaving Sherlock behind. Now he would have to plan a wedding without the proper best man, and things were really going to change for him. Hopefully it'd be for the better.

* * *

Now it's August 5th, and John feels as though he's truly happy again. The wedding is still about seven months away (Mary did love planning these sorts of things), and right now she's out with her bridesmaids, looking at decorations and dresses.

John's stopping by Tescos to pick up a few things that they'll need for dinner. Things are going extremely well, except sometimes he feels a small pang of hopelessness and loss. Thinking about the wedding helps him a bit, and he knows that Sherlock might be happy for him.

He's moved out of 221B, since he doesn't want to raise a family there. It's too small and he doesn't want to be the one that has to clean out Sherlock's room. Plus, in order to completely have closure he needs to be in a new place, sort of like a clean slate for him.

While he's on his way home, he receives a text. Surprisingly, it's from Mycroft.

_A car has been sent for you. –MH_

A snort escapes John's lips and he slides his phone back in his pocket. He's already in a cab, and he has no desire to talk to the elder Holmes. He's still pissed off at him for what he's done, and it'd be better if they just don't talk at all. To be safe, he asks the cabbie to pull over and he gets out. There's no way he's going to be tricked into going to one of those elusive buildings alone with that man.

He hobbles the last five blocks home, and it's hard. He has five bags and a cane to deal with, but he doesn't stop, even when a black car pulls up next to him and Anthea asks him to get in. He ignores her and continues walking.

When he does finally make it back, he's annoyed and flustered. Mycroft has called him seven times and the car has been following him. All he wants to do is lock himself away in his flat and stay there until Mary gets home.

He's digging in his pockets for his keys when something catches his eye—something that he hasn't seen for quite some time; a man in a long coat with too long curly hair and striking blue eyes. John stops in his tracks and stares for a bit. The man stares right back at him and goes to stand up, putting out a cigarette he's been smoking. He takes two hesitant steps towards John, and for a second the ex doctor swears he says his name. He can't be too sure for the world around him is spinning and his heart feels as though it's about to burst out of his chest.

_Three bloody years, Sherlock._ He thinks over and over as the groceries slip from his grip, as well as his cane. A spike of pain shoots through his leg as he stumbles forward into the man that might be but can't be Sherlock. He feels himself hit the body, and he tries to desperately cling on, but to no avail. He continues to fall straight to the ground. Again his name is called and the last thing he hears is the slamming of a car door and someone cursing before a blackness overcomes him.


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Okay so this chapter and the chapters after this will be written with John and Sherlock combined. It was just easier to do the preceding chapters of them separately. Just letting y'all know so you don't think I'm getting lazy on you~**

**Next week's chapter will be postponed until whatever day I have off next week thanks to my boss for giving me a crazy late schedule. As always, reviews and favorites/alerts are much appreciated!**

When he wakes up, John has no idea how long he's been out. His head is absolutely killing him and he feels as though he's in a daze. Sleepily, he rubs his eyes and breathes deeply. Then, it hits him. Like a wave, the memories of what happened earlier crash down on him. The realization makes him shoot up and look around, but much to his dismay, there is no Sherlock.

He can feel his heart crack once more at this, and he closes his eyes and buries his face in his hands.

He swore that it actually happened. Everything had just felt so real to him; it had to have happened. He remembered walking up to his door, and there he was. He remembered feeling like he was going to throw up and pass out, and he did pass out. But now there's no Sherlock, and he's alone in the flat. He looks around the room some more, hoping that he's missed the tall male, but he hasn't. John bites his lower lip softly before he slowly stands up.

It must've been a dream. Just a silly dream that he convinced himself was real. After all, when he dreamed of Afghanistan, the next mornings he swore that he'd been back there. This is just like those times.

Which means he also didn't go to Tescos. Mary won't be too happy about that if she gets home and there is no food to cook with. So he carefully slides his shoes on and grabs his wallet and keys off of the coffee table. He won't tell her about the dream. She wouldn't understand it at all. "It's been three years, John," she'd say, "It's time to let him go, okay?"

No, he couldn't tell her about this at all.

Sherlock can tell John is awake from the sudden movement that's coming from the living room. His lips twitch slightly, hinting at a smile as he pours the tea into the two cups he found. He then makes his way into the living room, only to find there's no John. He glances towards the doorway that leads to a hallway. "John?" He calls out tentatively before he goes to look for himself. Sure enough, there's John, about to leave. John turns around to see Sherlock holding the cups, surely filled with tea.

They stand there for a moment, and suddenly John feels his blood begin to boil. Sherlock can tell that the man is furious (John always was an open book), and he takes a small step back, fearing that he's about to be punched. He's very right to do so, because John balls his hand into a tight fist and raises it as he takes a step forward. He's about to swing when Sherlock's eyes, which have now widened slightly, catch his and the anger dissipates. His voice catches in his throat and his eyes begin to burn. He drops his hand and lets out a choked sob before he falls into Sherlock.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock doesn't stumble. The tea spills all over the both of them, and the cups drop to the floor. And, unsurprisingly, it doesn't burn them. It's like they don't even notice it happened.

As John's arms wrap around the detective's waist, Sherlock finds himself wrapping his arms around the other's shoulders. They stand like that for what seems like forever. Sherlock can feel John's tears seeping through his shirt, and a small part of him breaks. He pulls John closer and bows his head as his hand reaches up and rests on the back of John's head. He inhales the man's scent and closes his eyes. John's hold on his supposedly dead best friend tightens, and his eyes close as well. Sherlock smells like 221B and soap and Sherlock. It's something he's missed terribly.

"John…" Sherlock whispers. The detective turns his head and buries his face in John's neck, exhaling deeply. John can feel the walls he built to protect himself when Sherlock died begin to crack just by hearing his name, and it's too much. He pushes himself away from the other and looks to the side. Sherlock is startled—he didn't think John would push away from him. He straightens himself up a bit, but doesn't look away. He can feel what's coming next.

"You… I saw- I saw you die." John's voice cracks a bit as he speaks, making Sherlock wince. "I went to your funeral. I stood at your grave. I identified your body. It was you, Sherlock. It had to have been you." He looks at the ground, then back up at Sherlock. "You made me watch and it absolutely _ruined_ me." His voice goes from less soft and broken to angry and loud. "I couldn't even function for the first year after you left!" Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John puts up his hand. "Stop, Sherlock. Don't you even try to speak right now."

He pauses for a brief moment and runs the same hand through his short hair. "Three fucking years. Where the bloody hell were you, huh? Off somewhere by yourself to get away from the public eye? And what? Did you think that leaving me here alone, thinking you were _dead…_" his voice trails off, and he shakes his head. "How could you have done that just so easily? And don't say that it wasn't, because you sure as hell seemed like you had no trouble pretending that you really were going to follow through with it!"

"John, if you just-" Sherlock doesn't even get to finish his request when John shoves past him, red in the face.

"No! You can't come back in here and act like everything is fine and dandy and make a cuppa and expect me to be okay with this. You left me here to deal with this alone. You left Mrs. Hudson to deal with this, and even though your brother can be a wanker you left him too. And here I was, regretting that I ever called you anything less than human when it's true. You did this for yourself because you can't stand not being thought of as anything other than magnificent." And with that, John storms to his and Mary's room. He can't look at his not so dead best friend, let alone speak with him any longer.

Sherlock is left in the doorway, staring. He knows better than to take those words to heart because John has every right to be pissed off, even if it does make him seem like an idiot. He sighs deeply and rubs his face. That didn't go well at all, and he needs to fix it. It's probably not a good idea, but Sherlock walks the same way John did, and it doesn't take more than a few seconds to pick out his and Mary's room. He stands quietly in front of it, but obviously not all that quietly because he hears John say "Piss off, Sherlock." It shouldn't, but that one did hurt. It's like what every other person used to say to him and it won't be the last one now that he's back. John is the last person who would say that, yet here he is.

"John, I…" He curses to himself and leans his head against the door. "I'm sorry. But you don't understand. I couldn't stay. I looked for every way out of this and I couldn't. I had to leave and you couldn't come with me. Please, let me explain." God, how pathetic he feels. He hates to beg, and he hasn't in quite some time. But he has to because John still means the world to him and now his world is threatening to shatter even though he's worked so hard to keep it alive.

It's silent for a moment before the door opens and there's John, standing there. His eyes are puffy and slightly red, and he looks like a mess. He doesn't want to, that much is obvious, but he mutters something along the lines of "fine", and leads Sherlock back out to the living room. They sit on the couch, but far apart from each other. Sherlock doesn't like it, but John needs his space.

Sherlock manages to tell a condensed version of the whole thing, including how he got away with faking a suicide, in a little under an hour. When he's done, he can tell John isn't any happier than he was before.

"What I don't get, Sherlock," John begins, "Is why you couldn't have taken me with you. You fooled the snipers into thinking you were dead, but you couldn't take me with you. I could have _helped_ you Sherlock. Was I of no use to you? Would I have only gotten in the way or what?"

Sherlock purses his lips in thought before sighing. "You weren't listening. Moriarty, even in death, has tremendous power over people. He instructed the snipers to watch you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade for months after I faked my death, just to make sure I was dead. If I would have brought you along, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have died instead and the whole thing would have been ruined."

John sits there, staring straight ahead now. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would've died. Even though he tries to hold it back, John smirks. "Are you showing sentimentality now, Sherlock Holmes?" He asks, and a small chuckle passes both of their lips.

The moment doesn't last long before John is back to being serious. "You're still an enormous git for leaving me like that. What if I killed myself from the trauma of having to watch my best mate jump?"

At this, Sherlock shrugs slowly. "I had Mycroft and Molly watch over you. I made them promise that they wouldn't allow something as bad as that happen." It comes out before he could stop it. He'd purposefully left that out while he was telling his story for the fear of John going on an unnecessary rampage.

It hits John then, and he becomes angry again. "Mycroft and Molly knew. Oh, that's just great. They knew and they didn't bother to tell me even though I thought that I would never recover from this. Why did they get to know but I had to remain in the dark, hm? Moriarty could have easily gotten them killed too."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to be annoyed. "Don't be so _dense_ John! Think! I didn't treat them the way I treat you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty didn't believe for a second that they mattered to me. The snipers probably didn't know they even existed. I made sure that Moriarty thought they didn't matter to me at all because I needed them to help me. It was too late to make him think you didn't matter to me either, so they were my best shot. Let me remind you that I knew since the pool incident what he was going to kill me somehow. By me trying to save you that showed that I needed you to be safe."

He stops there and furrows his brows together. John clears his throat a bit awkwardly and nods slowly. Sherlock just admitted to caring about him and needing him to be safe, something John never thought he'd hear. It makes his heart flutter in a way that he hasn't felt for a long, long time. He has the sudden urge to lean into the other and hug him, kiss him, and let him know his feelings before the man disappears again, but Mary comes to mind in that same moment. He'd nearly forgotten.

"I'm getting married, you know." John says suddenly without much thought.

On the inside, Sherlock cringes just at the though of John marrying, but he doesn't show it. Instead, he raises an eyebrow and nods. "Yes, I've known John. You sent my brother an invitation, remember?" He shakes his head. "Plus I would have been able to deduce that within three seconds of looking at you. It seems as though you've forgotten what I can do."

John says nothing in return, and they sit in silence for what feels like forever. The tension builds up again and soon both men begin to feel uncomfortable.

John subconsciously brushes off his shirt and feels the cold tea on his hands. He glances down and smiles a bit. "That tea must have been awful if it's already cold. I don't even think it burned me."

Both laugh awkwardly and Sherlock looks down at his lap. "You were always the one making tea. You can't expect me to know how."

"How did you make tea before I moved in, then?"

"I didn't. I had other people and previous flatmates make it for me." Sherlock replies, and the silence settles back over them, though it's short lived.

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to tell Mary?"

"I already have something planned."

John smiles a bit at that. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to have everything figured out.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Late late late and short. Sorry my loves. I won't be home until Monday, and the place I'm going to does not have any wifi. I'm already working on the next chapter so it should *hopefully* be up Monday night.**

**Reviews and favorites are very much appreciated!**

When Mary does return home, she doesn't freak out. She simply stares Sherlock up and down with a small frown before saying, "You're Sherlock Holmes. I thought you were dead." She then shoots John a look saying _'You have a lot of explaining to do, John Hamish Watson.'_ So, after tea is made, the three sit in the living room and Sherlock goes through what happened. He's surprised that she seems to follow most of it. She doesn't ask too many questions, and when she does John's the one to clarify. It's apparent that he's told her about all of this, well all leading up to the suicide.

Once it's all over for the second time, they sit in what's supposed to be a comfortable silence. Sherlock deduces everything he can about her. From what she did as a child to what she does now, he tries to gather everything he can. It only takes him a minute, and he already doesn't like her. He doesn't understand why he doesn't like her, but he doesn't. There's something about the way she looks at John that irks him. He feels the need to scare her off like he's done with the other girlfriends, but something holds him back, what?

John shoots a glance at Sherlock, and knows in an instant that he doesn't like Mary. He just gets this look on his face that lets him know, and John feels dread well up in him. The last thing he needs is for Sherlock to cause drama. If he knows what's good for him, the detective won't because John loves Mary. He really does. She's beautiful and kind and everything he's looked for in a woman. However, he also loves Sherlock. But he can't let him mess everything up because he's back.

Mary snaps both men out of there thoughts by clearing her throat. "I'm guessing you both are famished. John, you went to Tescos, right?" The blond male nods and she rises from her seat, giving them both a soft smile. "Wonderful. I'll go get everything started so you two have a bit to catch up." She leaves the room, the awkward tension following.

The two men don't say anything right away, but at least the silence is a bit more comfortable. That is, until John breaks it. "So, where will you be staying?"

"Back to our old flat. Where else?"

John shrugs and takes a sip of his now cold tea. "I don't know. I thought she would have rented it out by now…"

This makes Sherlock snort. "She's tried renting it out, but you've only left a few months ago, John. It can't go that quickly-"

"Especially with the damages you've caused there." John interrupts with a light chuckle. Reluctantly, Sherlock smiles. "Does she know you're alive yet?"

"No, not yet. You're the first person I've told besides those who already knew beforehand." He pauses and tilts his head in thought. "I'll have to be far more careful with her, though. She isn't quite as strong with you."

John sighs and nods his head. "She was almost as upset as I was when you died, you know. All she talked about for the first couple of weeks was you and every time she cried. I'm sure she'll understand, but you need to be wary of her. She may have her moments but she's still a bit fragile at this age."

Sherlock sighs and shoots a glare at John. Instead of glaring back, John just smiles because he knows how annoyed Sherlock gets when he points out the obvious. It's been three years though; it'll be a bit tough to get back into routine.

It's not too much longer before Mary comes back and announces that dinner is ready. They join her at the table, which has been set for the three of them. Sherlock takes a seat in the chair that hasn't been used, which is across from where John sits. Mary and John begin to eat, but Sherlock just sits.

Mary looks up at him and frowns. "I'm sorry. Do you not like spaghetti?"

"No, Sherlock just doesn't eat," John interjects with a grin. "He's never really been one for eating, even after coming back from the dead, it seems."

Sherlock grimaces to himself and takes a drink of the wine she's poured for all three of them. It's not what he's used to, but what's he to expect? "Digestion slows down the processing of my brain. The last thing I need is to be slowed down right now." He mutters.

The dinner conversation pretty much ends there, and once it's over with Sherlock decides that it's time for him to go. The discomfort is obvious on John's face, and no one can really blame him. His best friend has just come back from the dead, and he leaving, even for one night, is a bit unbearable. He's terrified that he won't come back. It's a bit silly, but the thought probes his mind as the two say their goodbyes.

Sherlock seems to pick up on it for he announces that he will be back tomorrow. It's an assurance to both John and himself. When John immediately accepts, Sherlock knows that he's been forgiven, even if it's just a little. Mary seems supportive of it (though Sherlock really wouldn't care if she didn't), so it makes John all the more willing.

Both don't say a thing about it, but they're excited. John can hardly sleep that night, and Sherlock doesn't. For them, tomorrow cannot come fast enough.


End file.
